Inhale, Exhale
by Valerie E. Mackin
Summary: "She's a little different, a little confused, and just a little bit fractured. And that's that way she prefers it. The man Maggie literally stumbles over as she roams deeper into her woods is also splintered, though in a much deeper and more fundamental way." Set pre-rising, post All Saints Day.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note: This story is the prize awarded to and the result of a prompt from Siarh (totally check out her work, if you like Walking Dead stuff) for winning one of the most random contests I've ever thought of (long story, ask me over a drink sometime)._**

**_Set during the Christmas season before the outbreak; much like the show, I won't pin an exact year on it. Set post All Saints Day. If either character seems a little AU, please remember this is Maggie as she was before the outbreak: college student in last or second-to-last year of school, not too long after her rebellious teenage years. This is Connor after the death of his father, Greenly, Rocco, and his experience at the Hoag, as well as some other things we'll get into later. Thanks, as ever, for reading._**

…

_"It hurts, Murph. Ye said it'd be better by now, but it hurts...An' I'm pretty tired, so…I'm gonna…sit down fer a bit. Might…be better after I sit down."_

_…_

_"Maggie? Is that you?"_

_"Yeah, Annette, just headed out for a walk to stretch my legs after the drive. You need somethin'?"_

_"You mean you're goin' out to the woods to smoke while your dad's still in town?"_

_"Of course."_

_"Glad you're home, sweetheart. Just be back in time for supper."_

_"Glad to be home, Annette."_

…

Day 1:

The cigarette is the first one Maggie's had all semester. She promised herself if she made it through the last final without cracking she could smoke herself into a disgusting, tar-saturated mess over Christmas, and, _God_, is it a good feeling to keep that promise.

She'd gotten into the habit of sneaking out into the woods to smoke back when her Dad and Annette first started dating. Rebellious, surly teenager phase. The shoplifting and sullen fits faded out eventually, as most ridiculous juvenile habits should, but the smoking stuck around.

It's become a ritual since she started college: meet and greet the family for a few hours on the first day of winter break, wait until her dad runs out to town for something, then strike out on her own to stretch her legs after that "long drive."

She realizes she's being chicken shit on several levels, not the least of which is denying herself smoking at school so that none of her upstanding, respectable, trendy school friends know that she has such a "publicly loathed and reprehensible habit." Their words, not hers.

She snorts to herself as she lights up her first smoke in five months. As she wanders through the woods she knows better than anywhere else in the world, she silently admits that she likes being someone else when she's alone, that she likes being different from everyone she knows.

At school, she's the smart, pretty girl who's just popular and sought after enough. At home, she's the level-headed and practical daughter who grew out of her rebellious streak and into a "fine, responsible young woman her family can be proud of." Pastor Bill's words, not hers.

To her friends, Maggie is fun, friendly, and funny. To her family, she is reasonable, rational, and reliable. In her own opinion, Maggie is a little of all of these, but mostly none of the above. She's a little different, a little confused, and just a little bit fractured.

And that's the way she prefers it.

The man Maggie literally stumbles over as she roams deeper into her woods is also splintered, though in a much deeper and more fundamental way. She's startled, rightly so (though less frightened than she probably should be), and nearly spits her cigarette out on the ground. The filthy, broken stranger reclines on the ground, barely upright against a massive oak, and she has apparently tripped over his outstretched legs.

Though Maggie wonders how she could have possibly missed him, he doesn't seem to notice she's there.

"You alright?" She regrets the words the moment they pass her lips, silently cursing her stupidity. He's very obviously far from alright. Again, he doesn't seem to hear her; he's muttering incoherently, eyes closed, his limp form useless and deflated against the base of the tree.

She realizes several things in rapid succession: he's clearly not a threat to her physically (she's not sure he could move if he wanted to); he's in serious need of medical or professional help (or both); and both of those are probably the last thing he wants right now, judging from the ragged gray jumpsuit he's wearing that reads "Hoag Maximum Security Prison" across the chest.

It takes her all of thirty seconds to decide she needs to help him more than she needs to turn him in. She has very little rational basis for this decision, but aside from being a little fractured, she's also stubborn as hell, and God help anyone in her way once she's made up her mind.

She kneels next to him, careful to move slowly and deliberately in case he might become aware of her presence and spook suddenly like a wild animal.

"Can ya hear me? Are ya hurt?"

His eyes flick to hers, unexpectedly alert, and Maggie has to force herself not to start backwards. His gaze is a hazy, pain-filled blue that steals a little air from her lungs. She thinks simultaneously of the day a tornado ripped through their barn and took most of the building with it, and of the way her father looked when he held her hand at the foot of her mother's casket.

He croaks something, a horrible, dried-out whisper that she can't decipher, and tilts his head towards her. She cautiously leans closer and asks him to repeat what he said.

"Ye…gonna…finish dat?"

She glances down, for a moment not recognizing the cigarette still clamped between two fingers. Without thinking, she dashes off the accumulated ashes and holds the smoke up to his lips. She's pretty sure he can't hold it up himself, and she'd rather not set the fugitive or the woods on fire just now.

He draws in the first lungful slowly, visibly relishing the inhale as if it's the most miraculous thing he's ever experienced. Maggie reflects for a moment that she can relate to the feeling, and marvels that they have even this small thing in common. He raises a trembling hand, fingers brushing accidentally against hers as he very carefully and deliberately takes the cigarette, making a noticeable effort to keep the small object between fingers that seem to have lost most of their dexterity.

There's no magical tingle or spark of electricity jumping between their hands when they touch, not like in those trashy romance books she constantly catches Beth reading. What his cool skin brushing against hers does, however, is remind her that it's December, and even though they're in Georgia, it's a bit cool out today.

"I, uh…got a few things back at the house might help ya out, mister," she says suddenly, straightening. "Gimme an hour or two, I'll see what I can get together."

She turns her back on the broken wreck at the base of the tree and starts toward home. A nagging thought in the corner of her mind makes her pauses, turn, and look at him. She watches him inhale and exhale for a couple of moments, his eyes either distant or just plain vacant again as the smoke curls around his face.

"Don't…don't leave, alright? I'll be right back."

They both know she doesn't mean the kind of leaving that involves getting up and walking away.

She takes much longer than she meant to, and it's several hours later when she's finally able to leave the house without anyone noticing that her arms are full of things she'd have no explanation for taking outside.

She's absurdly relieved to find "Prison Man" (as she's taken to calling him in her head) in the same place that she left him. Then she freezes.

There's a terrible second where she can't tell if he's still breathing.

There's a worse second where she's sure he isn't.

There's a light-headed second when he finally moves.

This is followed quickly by a rather confused second where she wonders why she cares so much.

He tilts his head a little to the side, and as his cloudy eyes roll to meet hers, she's surprised to hear the flustered apologies and excuses spilling and stumbling from her lips as if they've found their own convicts in the woods to trip over. She fumbles her armload of supplies to the ground next to him and trails off, mumbling something about having to help with chores and having dinner with the family.

Her face is flaming in the chilly darkness, and she doesn't know why.

He watches her dully, silent and shivering as she pulls containers and clothing from within the folds of the blanket in which she's bundled her stash. Maggie bites her lip as she moves, forcing in the babbling and feeling very young in this haggard man's presence.

She opens a container of homemade soup still warm from the stove and realizes that in her belated haste to get back to him she's forgotten any sort of utensils.

"I don't suppose you can hold the soup up to drink it, can you?" she asks, not sure why she's speaking so quietly. There's no chance anyone at the house can hear them out here.

"C'n try," he mutters, reaching out once more with trembling hands.

It's clear after a brief, awkward attempt that he just doesn't have the strength. Maggie repositions herself on the leaves, sitting cross-legged and facing him. Instead of taking the soup from him, she wraps her warm hands around his frigid ones and guides the container back to his lips.

Between sips, he whispers, " 'F I ferget t'say so, thank ye." She blinks hard for a moment, clearing her throat, and nods.

"Welcome," she smiles, glad the darkness hides the flames that simmer on her face again.

The darkness does not quite hide the old tear tracks running through the layers of grime on his face, but she's polite enough to not notice this aloud.

When he's finished, she pulls out another Tupperware container that has several warm, wet rags inside. "I thought ya might want to clean up some. An' I brought ya a change of clothes, somethin' a bit warmer than…what you've got on. Didn't know if you were hurt, so I brought a first aid kit if ya need it."

Judging by the increased heat in her face and the slight, mischievous twinkle in his otherwise scattered eyes, the fact that he obviously can't bathe and dress himself occurs to both of them at the same time.

"Oh, Lord," Maggie mutters. There's another tiny flash of humor in his eyes, but it fades just as quickly as the first. "I guess, if ya don't mind too much, I'll help ya do that part, too."

"Pretty girl…offerin' t'undress…me an'gimme….a sponge bath. Can't really complain, can I?"

If there were any actual lasciviousness or threat in his tone, Maggie would be gone in an instant. His comment seems automatic, though, a habit pulled from the faintest echo of a past life that doesn't exist anymore. Comments like this are expected of him, and it comes out reflexively rather than offensively.

She can't say she ever expected to spend the first night of her winter break in the woods, helping an escaped prisoner strip and bathe. She'd be lying if she said this wasn't the strangest thing that's ever happened to her. Up to this point, life's been fairly typical, if not storybook, but Maggie feels she's handling the unorthodox situation rather well.

Diplomatically, if you ask her.

After thirty cold, exhausting (and slightly embarrassing) minutes, she's gotten him mostly cleaned up and changed into some dollar store sweats and socks she lifted from Shawn's room. She couldn't swipe any shoes, and anyway, there's no way she could guess his size. The shoes he had on aren't in the absolute worst shape, so she slides them back on his feet. She barely manages to keep the heat contained in her face when she stammers out that she didn't get any underwear, and he graciously murmurs that she's done enough and he'll surely be fine in what he's got on.

He rouses himself enough during the tedious process to help as much as he can, especially to ask her to please be careful of the pair of rosaries he wears tucked into his undershirt. She takes a moment to delicately wipe a rag over the beads, and he takes a moment to thank her again, though she can see he's quickly running through what little strength he had to start with.

She doesn't ask him what a Prison Man could possibly be doing with one rosary, much less two. That's not really her business.

She pulls out the last clean, damp rag and warms it between her hands before reaching out to his face. His attention has wandered, or he's dozed off for a moment, and he flinches from the sudden contact. Years of helping her daddy deal with skittish animals at his office and on the farm have taught Maggie patience, though, and she holds her hand steady and murmurs soft, consoling words.

His eyes, panicked and a little wild, finally focus on her mouth as she continues talking, inane babble whose only purpose is to provide a soothing cadence to reassure him of his safety. After a moment, she presses the rag to his cheek again, gently wiping away grime and small bits of dried blood, effectively erasing any evidence of his apparent weeping.

When he speaks, his voice is so faint Maggie has to lean in to hear him, pausing in her ministrations.

"What'd you say, Prison Man?"

"Do ye know…any church songs? Voice like yers…seems made fer church singin'…And I ain't…seen th'inside of a church…nor heard singin' fer…ages. If it's not askin' too much…maybe a...hymn?"

Definitely not how she pictured tonight going.

Quietly, with more than a bit of rust in her pipes, Maggie manages to get out the first two verses of "The Old Rugged Cross" as she carefully washes his face clean. She hasn't sung for anyone but church and family in a month of Sundays, but if she sounds particularly out of practice, Prison Man is polite enough to not say anything.

The parts of his face that aren't covered in what looks like nearly a month's growth of facial hair slowly give ground to her efforts. She finds several scratches under the filth, though nothing too deep or severe, and a couple of bruises. He's so exhausted the circles under his eyes almost seem like the result of a physical altercation except there's no signs of swelling or damage.

As she cleans a vaguely nasty looking scratch running through the bristles along the right side of his jaw line, she nearly apologies for not thinking to bring shaving supplies. The absurdity of the whole situation stops her from sharing this thought, though, and she bites her lip to prevent further slips.

She's fairly sure he's asleep now, and though she's not one hundred percent, she thinks his breathing might be a little deeper and a little more regular than when she first found him. She covers him with the blanket she brought then quietly sets about gathering the rags, Tupperware, and tattered jumpsuit to take back with her.

His fingers on her bare elbow are so unexpected she tips over sideways from her precarious crouch and spits out a string of expletives that would have Annette threatening to pull out a bar of Dove, no matter that Maggie's a junior in college.

"Didn't mean…t'startle ye."

"S'alright," she huffs out. "What…what do ya need?" She has no idea in how he managed to catch her so off guard in his less than prime condition. She's really got to pay better attention.

"Hate t'ask after…all ye done, but I was…wondrin' if ye had…somethin' t'drink an' maybe…another smoke?"

"As a matter of fact," she says, a relieved smile spreading over her face, "I think I can help you out on both counts."

Five minutes later sees the two of them sitting side by side, the trunk of the massive oak wide enough for the two of them to sit shoulder to shoulder and hardly be facing in different directions. They smoke contentedly, one empty and one full bottle of water between them, and Maggie wonders for a moment how it is she can feel so relaxed next to this escaped convict that she doesn't know from Adam.

"Feelin' a little more yourself?" Maggie asks. He nods, the glow at the end of his cigarette dipping drunkenly in the darkness.

"Feel like sharin' any personal information yet?"

A long, loaded pause, then—

"Name's Connor."

She nods; she doesn't figure many escaped convicts are likely to be the sharing type. "I s'pose that's better than Prison Man. I'm Maggie."

Another pause.

Inhale…

Exhale…

" 'Twas a lovely song, Maggie. Can't tell ye how much I appreciate what ye've done."

The shyness hits her like a like an entire flock of butterflies landing in her stomach at once, and she's suddenly jittery and restless without any real understanding as to why. She's unable to sit still any longer and hastily stubs her cigarette out on the sole of her shoe. She climbs to her feet, brushing leaves off her backside.

"Alright, Connor, I've gotta head in for night. I've left ya a sandwich if ya feel up to it, there's another water, and you've got the blanket to wrap up in. I'll, uh…take care of your other clothes for you." She forces herself to stop rambling as she gathers her return bundle.

"Thank ye, again." His voice is faint, barely audible, and she has the feeling exhaustion is finally claiming him completely.

"You're welcome. I…Good luck, I guess." But he's already out, snoring lightly with his head titled back against the bark. She leans down, taking the smoldering cigarette from his nerveless fingers, and stubs it out against the trunk of the tree. She looks him over again, taking a moment to tuck in the blanket a little more securely. Before she can talk herself out of it, she takes the small first aid kit from her bundle, places it beside the bottle of water, then straightens and turns, heading quickly back home.

As she walks through the woods so familiar she doesn't even need a trail to find her way, she lets her mind wander over the fact that although Connor is an escaped convict, he is very much _not_ from the nearby prison and therefore must have come quite a ways before collapsing in her woods. She spends part of the walk back wondering where he might've come from and the other part thinking about his request for a hymn. It certainly matches up with a lot of the tattoos she noticed while she was helping him change clothes. Not to mention the two rosaries.

It doesn't occur to Maggie to question the fact that he's very obviously Irish until she is tucked up safe and warm in her own room with his ragged, filthy prison uniform stashed in the corner between her bed and the wall.

When she falls asleep, she dreams of funerals, tornados, and rosary beads.

_Author's Note: If you've made it this far, please take a moment to leave a few words in the review box on your way out. Thank you for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

"_Ye look good, Roc."_

"_You two don't."_

…

"_Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold."__Andre Maurois_

…

Day 2:

Maggie spends most of the day physically distracted by family activities and small day-to-day issues that inevitable crop up near big holidays. Not that her mind doesn't constantly wander back to the broken man in the woods; she just doesn't allow herself time to dwell. He's had food and some actual sleep, so he might've even found the strength to get up and move on.

She shakes her head, shoving Connor's haunted visage from her mind, and forces herself to think about what to get Annette for Christmas this year.

It's not until mid-afternoon that she even has a moment to herself to step out onto the porch and just take a deep breath. As the screen door bangs shut, Maggie's breath clouds up in front of her face, and she shivers. She had no idea it had gotten so cold, and her mind forces through the constraints she's put on it all day, snapping immediately to Connor.

There's a steady drizzle falling (and has been for a good while now, judging from the sludgy state of the yard) that transforms what she can see of the woods from something familiar and safe into something that offers little shelter and even less protection from the biting wind and chilly droplets.

"Shit."

She knows he's still in the woods without having to leave the porch. He was too far gone yesterday for some soup and a bottle of water to revive him, and she's been lying to herself all day by thinking otherwise.

The first place she goes is the kitchen, setting up a fresh pot of coffee to brew and digging out the thermos she used to take out in the woods when she would go "camping" with Shawn and Beth.

She snatches a trash bag out of the pantry and proceeds to stuff it full of blankets and towels, just managing to avoid her family as she gathers what she thinks she might need. She throws on a raincoat and sprints out to barn, dodging puddles and trying not to notice that the rain's picked up some.

The barn is temporarily abandoned, as the two horses they own are currently on loan to an autism therapy center for their holiday events and the chickens have their own little coop. She stashes the trash bag in stall farthest from the door, knowing the hay loft would be safer but also knowing she'd never be able to get Connor up the ladder. Assuming she can get him to the barn at all. Assuming he's still—

No. She can't think like that.

She races back to the house, brushing past Beth and just avoiding sending the smaller girl flying into a wall.

"Geez, Maggie, what's your problem?!"

But she doesn't pay any attention to her sister and tries to think if there's anything else she should take with her. It's going to be hell getting Connor from the woods to the barn, but she can't think of any other solution except to tell someone, and she doesn't really think that's the best idea.

Especially since she hasn't found the time to get rid of that prison uniform in her bedroom yet.

She pours the coffee into the thermos and passes through the family room on the way out. Annette is folding laundry and listening to some show on the television where people are running around on a stage, yelling and generally being chaotic.

Maggie can relate to those people right about now.

"Headin' out for a walk, I'll be back after a while."

Annette glances up. "It's raining and freezing out…you sure that's the best idea?"

Maggie waves the thermos and pulls her raincoat a little more rightly around herself as she throttles down the wave of panic washing through her stomach. "I'll be fine. Got a book, might go sit and read in the barn for a while. Gettin' a bit crowded in here, if ya know what I mean."

Annette smiles indulgently and returns to her folding. "Well, you've done dumber things for worse reasons. Just come back in if you get to cold, and don't say I didn't warn you if you catch your death."

Maggie chokes back the rising bile in her throat, manages a half-way normal sounding, "Yes, ma'am," and is out the door before she can run into anyone else. She pauses long enough to stash the thermos in the barn then takes off at a dead run into the trees.

The few minutes it takes to reach Connor in the woods are some of the most confusing of Maggie's life. She's breathing so hard, sucking in the cold, stinging air through her nose and blowing it back out in great, steaming puffs. She's doing her best to even out her breathing as she goes, though panic is working very hard against that control. And she has no idea why she's so worried about a stranger that, by all rights, she should be terrified or repulsed by.

She's certain he's already gone as soon as she spots him (didn't she _specifically_ tell him not to do that?), and she nearly throws up on the spot.

He's a ghostly, horrible grayish color that blends with the soaked, gray blanket he's still wrapped in. Sometime in the night, he either lay down or simply slipped sideways because his cheek is pressed into the freezing, sodden leaves, and she doesn't think he'd stay like that if he was able to move.

"Connor?" She can barely hear herself over the shushing sound of the rain falling in steady sheets around them, and she drops to her knees next to him. His skin is icy as she presses her fingers to his wrist. She doesn't allow herself anything as foolish as hope, but she does let one small, desperate wish escape when she feels a faint pulse pressing back against her thumb.

She takes his face gently in her hands, wiping away the water that streams around his nose and mouth.

"Can ya hear me? Are ya still in there?"

His bruised eyelids flicker at the sound of her voice, and he moans faintly. It seems that's the best response she's going to get.

"I've got to move you, and it's not going to feel very good, but I'm here, so…you, uh, you don't have to worry. It'll be okay."

Maggie wonders sarcastically for a moment when she got so good at lying.

She looks around the woods, taking in the rain, the trees, everything around them, thinking now would have been a great time for a vehicle of some sort. Of course, a car would never have fit between the trees, much less made it all the way out here without her family noticing something, but that's not the point. The point is, she's about to have to drag this man who, though he is quite starved, probably outweighs her by forty or fifty pounds, for over half a mile, and she's not at all sure she can do it.

Even as she's thinking, she knows his time is draining out of him with each freezing drop of water that rolls off his face. Her stomach is twisting, she's trying very hard not to panic, and a tiny voice deep inside keeps asking why the hell she cares so much about a dying criminal she's never met before yesterday.

Maybe because of simple human compassion. Or maybe because she hates to see something so helpless suffering.

But really it's because he's so very broken, and she's never wanted to fix anything so badly in her entire life.

Her eyes come to rest on the blanket he's still wrapped in, and she nods, realizing there's no other way she can get him back to the barn. She begins to push and pull him into place as gently as she can, but she's terrified she's going to do worse damage than has already been done.

When he fails to react at all other than to continue his shallow, faint breathing, she gives up any attempt at being gentle, realizing he's probably got less time than she thought, and after a couple of minutes of manhandling, she finally has him laid out on his side on the blanket.

Taking one more precious moment to actually use her brain instead of panicking, she glances around the area, grabbing anything that leaves signs of the convict's brief stay in her woods; the empty water bottles, the ruined sandwich he never got around to eating, and the first aid kit all get tossed onto the blanket with him.

After using the last bit of time she thinks she can spare, Maggie knots the blanket around his shoulders to keep him from sliding off the far end. Then she picks up the corners nearest to his feet, grits her teeth, and _pulls_.

Before many minutes have passed, she realizes she's soaking wet despite her rain coat. After another few minutes have passed, she realizes she is freezing, though she can only imagine how cold Connor is. Her arms are sore, her fingers are going numb, silent tears are dripping down her face, and she's not even halfway back.

Maggie speeds up.

What took twenty minutes of walking in the brisk evening air and four minutes of sprinting through an increasing drizzle takes a couple of lifetimes when dragging a nearly-dead, escaped convict through the woods in the pouring rain. Maggie wonders briefly when her life became the trailer for a cheesy horror movie.

When she stumbles and drops the blanket, lurching into the brush and causing him to roll sideways and thump into a log, he doesn't wake up. He doesn't moan or even flutter his eyelids in protest.

Maggie bites her lip, shoves him back on the blanket, re-gathers her corners, and moves a little faster.

Later on, she won't remember much of the way back except the cold, the wet, and the worry. The moment she finally gets him into the empty stall, she almost weeps with relief.

This feeling lasts until she opens up the soaking blanket and one again presses her fingers to his wrist, searching for a pulse and shuddering at the feel of his damp, gelid skin. She quickly divests him of the blanket and is in no way surprised to find that he's soaked down to the skin.

Brushing aside her sudden, acute, and pointless embarrassment, Maggie methodically strips him down, remembering at the last moment to get a dry blanket under him rather than leaving his bare skin to the mercy of the straw on the floor of the stall. Though he's not in much shape to complain at the moment.

Grabbing a towel, she sets about briskly rubbing him down and doing her best to ignore the ever-present heat that's rebuilding behind her face. As she towel dries his slowly thawing skin, she takes a bit more notice of the little details about Connor's body that she didn't allow herself to pay attention to the night before.

The sweeping, stylized lines of the tattoo on the side of his neck compared to the delicately intricate knot work of the one on his forearm.

The way the two rosaries he wears obviously go together but are subtly different.

And so, so very many scars.

But she'll have to think about that later because he's dry now, but he's not warming up very well, and he's still not responding. His pulse is faint but still present, so Maggie figures she might as well go for broke.

"Gotta get your feet wet sometime," she mutters, unzipping her rain coat. She sheds the cold, soaked garment, annoyed to find herself similarly soaked, though she's blessedly not nearly as cold as Connor. She sighs, stripping off her shirt, boots, and pants. Before she can get chilled or force herself to stop and think about what she's doing, she slides down next to Connor on the dry blanket, grabs another from the sack she brought out, and wraps the two of them in a double layer of fleece.

"Definitely not the best idea I've ever had," she sighs, locating one of his arms and slowly chaffing some warmth back into the skin. As her hands run briskly over Connor's sinewy, scarred muscles, she reluctantly murmurs, "Not the worst, either."

Maggie has to force her mind to go clinical and as blank as possible as she works up and down Connor's unresponsive body, giving herself swift mental kicks every time she starts to linger on any particular area for too long or with too much interest.

She is only human, after all, and she does have both eyes and nerve endings. She will not, however, allow herself to molest a comatose, hypothermic convict who can't even defend his own honor.

As both their temperatures begin to climb under the layers of blankets, Maggie finds these kicks less and less effective in redirecting her thoughts. When she has to stretch and reach around him in order to work on his back, she finds herself suppressing more than just a groan. She is pressed shoulder to ankle against this complete stranger (both of them somewhat less than fully clothed), but his body is firm in all the right places, is definitely starting to reach proper temperature, and is _quite _a bit more responsive now. She fidgets, a little ashamed at herself for not pulling away to a more respectful distance.

His back now warmed over, she lets her hands wander upwards, tracing the line of his shoulder blades, the tendons in the back of his neck, the damp warmth of his hairline, the ropes of muscles in his biceps, and finally (with a guilty rushing sensation swooping through her stomach like she's just fallen from a great height…or maybe jumped) the tired, worn lines of his face.

His facial hair is rough, shaggy even, and the scrape of it on the pads of her fingers send tingles up her arms. She strays upwards, moving from his beard to his cheeks, tracing the dark, bruised circles under his eyes and the delicate sweep of his eyelashes. She runs her thumbs over his eyebrows, leaning over him a little as she smoothes the messy lines into place.

Then her eyes flit back to his lips, an area she stringently avoided but can't seem to ignore. There's a tremor in her fingers as she gently touches the chapped skin, wincing at the thought of how long he must've been exposed out there before she found him.

She wonders for a moment if she's _actually_ leaning closer or if she's imagining it.

Maggie's mind understandably wanders even as her hands do, and at least ten seconds pass with her staring into Connor's eyes before she's hit with the realization that he's a) awake; b) staring right back at her; and c) still pressed rather intimately against her…for warmth's sake, of course.

She wrenches her entire body away and puts as much space between them as the blanket will allow.

" Rainin' out?" he rasps.

She can't help the laugh that bursts out as the tense knot of anxiety in her stomach dissolves suddenly.

"Welcome back." She has to clamp down the impulsive, giddy urge to kiss him and instead extracts herself from their cocoon to grab the thermos and some dry sweats from the trash bag. His eyes follow her sluggishly until she rejoins him, already shivering from her brief contact with the air; the temperature is still plummeting, and she's doubly glad she brought him to the barn. Should've offered it to him last night.

She expects him to flinch at the contact of her chilled skin against his now warm body, but he simply continues to silently watch her.

"Feel like some dry clothes and hot coffee?"

Clothes are definitely the first order of business if Maggie wants to accomplish anything, so she mentally braces herself for the intimacy and helps him as quickly into the sweats as she can. Despite their renewed warmth, her fingers fumble and slip a little every time they come in contact with his skin, and she's nearly shattered by the time he's dressed again.

She helps him shift until they're sitting side by side under the same blanket, and she pours the steaming coffee into the lid of the thermos. Just as she helped him with the soup the day before, she keeps her hands wrapped around his while he drinks, silently savoring the feel of his hands clasped between her own.

By the end of his third cup, he's drinking on his own. He's also beginning to resemble a person again, rather than a walking corpse, and she tells him so. He responds with a vague half-smile and holds the cup out silently for another refill.

When they reach the end of the thermos's contents, Maggie regretfully realizes how much time has passed since she left the house. She even more regretfully realizes that she'll have to don her own clothes, still soaking wet and freezing, in order to return. It's never a good idea to go out in one set of clothes and come home in a different set.

She learned her lesson about that a while back.

She helps Connor settle into a more comfortable resting position and adds another blanket over his feet in case he needs it.

"I know ya know, but just so it's said, ya gotta be quiet out here. Family's not too far away now, just over in the house, but no one should bother you out here." Connor doesn't respond, his eyes following her as she gathers things from around the stall. The weight of his gaze finally stops her nervous movements, and she faces him again.

"Ya need something before I go?"

"Ye comin' back?" he asks quietly.

Maggie crouches beside the prone man, ignoring the sharp, unexpected pang that pierces the left side of her chest. Without thinking, she reaches out and gently brushes some of the hair off of his forehead and out of his eyes.

"Yeah. Gotta wait for everyone to go to bed, but I'll bring ya some more coffee and some hot food. Ya need to rest for now, though. You're safe here, I've go ya."

He nods slowly, looking uncertain, but his eyelids are dropping, and he's near to passing out. She straightens from her crouch and turns, heading out as quietly as she can. As she walks away, he mumbles something, and her breath catches in her throat, but she keeps walking. Got to get back the family.

Later, standing under the scalding spray in the shower, she lets his words stream around her, turning them over and over in her mind.

"Ain't worried about food."

Her stomach clenches a little, and, despite the steam, she suddenly can't seem to get warm enough.

_Author's Note: Thanks for reading so far. Please take a moment to leave a review in the little boxy on your way out._


	3. Chapter 3

"_In all secrets there is a kind of guilt, however beautiful or joyful they may be, or for what good end they may be set to serve. Secrecy means evasion, and evasion means a problem to the moral mind." Gilbert Parker _

…

"_The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination." H. P. Lovecraft _

…

Days 3-8:

Connor spends the next few days mainly eating and sleeping. Maggie spends the next few days mainly bringing him food and watching him sleep. Or, as she prefers to call it, creeping.

He talks a lot in his sleep. She can't understand all of it, but what she does hear is a lot of names. She wonders why, at first, until she realizes that Connor is worrier, they type of person whose sleep is constantly plagued with anxiety for others.

He prays in his sleep, too: haunting words that stick in her mind on repeat like song lyrics after the radio's been shut off. Maggie doesn't recognize most of the prayers, figures they're just heartfelt words of desperation, but he seems to know a couple of them by rote and repeats them often.

Over the next week, Maggie loses count of how many times she watches him, his lips moving silently or speaking aloud, brow creased, lines etched deep into his face. There's a vein that stands out in the middle of his forehead that pulses anxiously, especially standing out when he's having a particularly bad dream.

This apparently turns out to be most nights. She realizes very early on that something is eating away at Connor from the inside out, something he either won't or can't talk about. During the second day he spends inside the barn, she has to bandage his fingers, as he's bitten his nails bloody.

She can't do anything for his chewed lips but bring him some medicated ointment and hope he uses it.

His eyes are haunted, a graveyard of miseries, but they are a little less empty than a couple of days ago. What little life remains in them will suddenly go out sometimes, leaving a void in its place that Maggie can't even begin to understand how to breach.

It's frightening to watch, like watching the life drain from someone. The first time it happened, she panicked, thinking he was having a stroke. It took nearly two full minutes of calling his name and even going so far as shaking him in order to get a response, and she didn't leave him for the rest of that night.

She figures small steps might be a good first step to crossing that void.

Around the middle of the week, Maggie takes to holding Connor's hand sometimes while she sits with him. She likes to think that, as a first step, it's not such an intrusive one on her part, and, awake or asleep, he doesn't seem to mind.

That's not to say he's been particularly verbose about his situation. Maggie comes to see him once during the daytime and for at least a couple of hours at night after her family's cone to sleep. Most nights, they either sit in strangely comfortable silence or talk about nothing remotely important. Maggie catches him up on the current news, tells him about things she got up to during her mutinous adolescent phase. She almost makes him smile a couple of times. Once, there's even a spark in his eyes, she's almost sure of it.

She's surprised to learn that, although he's never attended university himself, he can speak at least six foreign languages fluently.

"Yest' mnogo veshchey obo mne, chto by udivit' Vas," he murmurs, gazing down at their joined hands. He absently runs the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. She tries not to think about how it's his only undamaged, bandage-free finger. "Non dovrei dirtelo. Si potrebbe scappare e lasciarmi qui."

"That was…Italian and what?"

"Russian. Sorry if 'm showin' off too much. Habit."

She smiles, squeezing his hand gently. "No, I like it, really. Ya don't hear much of that around this place, and it almost sounds like music. It's lovely."

"Ce n'est pas aussi belle que votre musique."

She has no clue what he's saying, as the only foreign language her high school offered was Spanish, and she didn't feel particularly adventurous when she got to college, but she can feel the pleased blush rising up her neck and heating the tips of her ears.

"Where'd you learn to speak all that?"

"Our mother insisted on it."

She can tell he doesn't realize he's even said the words, that it's something he's said so often that it's automatic. She hesitates, then changes her mind suddenly, and for the first time in a long time Maggie lets her curiosity get the better of her judgment.

"Our? Do ya have a sibling?"

He doesn't so much shut down as fade out. He wilts back against the wall on which he was leaning, and his hand goes limp in hers. His eyes go completely vacant, and her first reaction is alarm: How deeply has her thoughtless comment wounded him? The fact that the injury was unintentional could hardly matter less. She should never have opened her mouth; the question couldn't have been further from being her business, and…and…

"Connor?" _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic_…

" 'M fine. Just…y'mind if I go ahead an' sleep? Been…pretty tired t'day, an' all."

She nods, swallowing hard against the painful lump in her throat. Stupid, stupid…she shouldn't have pushed him!

She pulls her feet underneath herself, moving to stand, when a light tug on her hand pulls her attention back to him. She looks at Connor reluctantly, afraid he'll see the shame and unwarranted hurt on her face. The man is tired and hurt, and she's got no right to be upset that he wants to sleep.

"I didn't mean to—"

He interrupts her quietly, cautiously. "Ain't upset wit' ye, not at all. There's just…t'ings m'not ready t'deal wit' yet. Dunno if I ever will be."

There's a long, loaded pause during which she thinks about his admission and he works out what to say next.

"I know I've no right t'ask ye fer anyt'in' else, but I've got two requests."

"What's the first?"

"I'll tell ye what I can when I'm ready an' able, but I'm askin' ye t'please give me a bit more time. Ye haven't pushed, an' ye've no idea how grateful I am fer dat. Ye just…ye gotta give me a bit more time."

She thinks his request is fairly reasonable, if anything in this bizarre situation _can_ be considered reasonable. And she really shouldn't have asked in the first place, she knows that; he's being kind to her, though she feels she couldn't deserve is much less at the moment.

"Alright, what's the second request?"

He's suddenly reluctant, avoiding her eyes, acting almost…what? Shy?

"That first night, ye…well, ye sang t'me, an' I really enjoyed it. Was wond'rin' if ye might see yer way t'sittin' wit' me til I was asleep, maybe singin' another song or two."

His eyes meet hers, and for a second she's back in that tornado, and breathing clearly isn't an option. Then they look away, the moment passes, and she's able to remember that oxygen is important, though she can't quite recall why.

He settles down in the makeshift bed they've slowly improved over the last few days. Maggie's cobbled together a workable mattress from an old sleeping bag stuffed with hay, as well as managed to smuggle out a couple of throw pillows and an extra blanket. He claims to be quite comfortable, says he's slept on worse, but she wonders sometimes.

"Would ya like another hymn tonight?"

"Fer th'first one, but maybe somethin' different fer th'second? Somethin' yer fond of."

So she takes his hand again and moves right up against his side, sitting cross-legged in the straw next to where he lays. She smoothes the hair from his forehead, the tips of her fingers lingering over the line where the vein will inevitably stand out during his nightmares tonight. His eyes slip closed at her touch.

Her own eyes travel over the deep creases in his face; the weather-beaten, chapped skin; the purplish smudges beneath his eyes; the weeks of scruff that desperately needs to be shaved. She wonders for probably the hundredth time since she's met him who he used to be and what he could have possibly done to deserve such a life as he has now.

And from that thought comes the memory of the perfect hymn. She begins softly, humming the tune a little as she makes sure she recalls the correct words. When she reaches her favorite verse, she fights the desire to wrap her arms around him and promise to make everything alright, but she doesn't like to make promises she can't keep, and even she isn't sure of that one. She finishes a little more softly than she meant to, but the words come across all the same:

_At the breaking of the day,_

_When we anchor on the shore,_

_At the breaking of the day,_

_When the storms of life are o'er,_

_When our sorrow and our sighing,_

_Like a dream will pass away,_

_When we all shall meet together,_

_At the breaking of the day!_

As she finishes the last words of the refrain, she can't stop the tear that slips down and lands on his face. She's mortified until she realizes it's landed amidst a few tears of his own. Rather than draw attention, she simply wipes her eyes and clears her throat.

"Alright, Prison Man, ya get one more, an' that's it. Your pretty beggin'n'pleadin' won't work, so ya might as well save it."

She startles a faint laugh from him, something she's not managed before, and the tears on both sides are thankfully left unmentioned.

He's pretty close to sleep, despite the brief interruption, so she chooses something soothing, something she remembers that used to help her sleep a long time ago.

"When I was little, my daddy would sing me this song. Said his daddy sang it to him and so on, all the way back to my great-great granddaddy that went overseas and fought in World War I. He said the soldiers liked to sing this song when they'd start missing all the folks they left back home. If ya don't think it'd sting ya too badly, I can sing that one for ya."

At his nod, she starts in once more, staying low and steady throughout the song this time, trying to make her tone as soothing as possible. He was already near to passing out, and she can see he's clearly only holding out in order to hear the end of the song. The song isn't very long, though, and before she knows it, she's reached the second and last chorus:

_There's a long, long trail a-winding_

_Into the land of my dreams,_

_Where the nightingales are singing_

_And a white moon beams._

_There's a long, long night of waiting_

_Until my dreams all come true;_

_Till the day when I'll be going down_

_That long, long trail with you._

"Goodnight, Connor." She leans over and gently kisses him on the forehead. In this moment of relaxation, of almost sleep, he looks a decade or two younger and so much less troubled.

"Thanks, Maggie," he murmurs sleepily. "Bein' alone's much better when you're here…'M glad Murphy sent ya t'me."

Then he's out, and Maggie is left sitting silently by his side, with his words hanging in the air like smoke. She doesn't know what else to do but keep holding his hand and listening to his light snores mix with the softly weeping wind as it sweeps by outside the barn.

_**Translations: **_

_(Russian) Yest' mnogo veshchey obo mne, chto by udivit' Vas. – There are a lot of things about me that would surprise you._

_(Italian) Non dovrei dirtelo. Si potrebbe scappare e lasciarmi qui. - I shouldn't tell you. You might run away and leave me here._

_(French) Ce n'est pas aussi belle que votre musique. – It's not as beautiful as your music._

_**Music Credits: **_

"_There's a Long, Long Trail":__ l__yrics by Stoddard King; music by__Alonzo "Zo" Elliott_

"_At the Breaking of the Day": lyrics by Fanny Crosby, John Sweney, William Kirkpatrick, & Henry L. Gilmour; music by John R. Sweney_

_**Author's Note: Thanks for reading this far. Let me know if you have any suggestions, questions, or issues. And no, I will not reimburse or replace your tissues. I've already used all of my own.**_


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: First, acknowledgements: Siarh, happy late birthday! Here's your epic chapter that I somehow got up before I moved; wouldn't even have this story if it weren't for you. Little Miss Tightly Wound, thanks for the encouragement! Karissa, if you're reading this, welcome to the circle and the shenanigans. Rhanon Brodie, this chapter would not proceed to rock all our faces off if not for you. For everyone who waited very patiently for this chapter, thanks so much._

_Last bit of author's note before I let you loose: I actually had a soundtrack to this one, which is weird because I don't normally listen to music while writing. If you're interested, "Crazy on You" and "What About Love" by Heart and "Rhiannon." "The Chain," and "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac are great for setting the mood for this one. Thanks for listening. _

…

"_My love is the evenin' breeze touchin' your skin._

_The gentle, sweet singin' of leaves in the wind._

_The whisper that calls after you in the night_

_And kisses your ear in the early moonlight._

_And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine._

_My love, the pleasure's mine._

_Let me go crazy on you._

_Crazy on you._

_Let me go crazy, crazy on you, ohhh._

_Wild man's world is cryin' in pain._

_What you gonna do when everybody's insane?_

_So afraid of one who's so afraid of you._

_What you gonna do...ohhh..."_

_Heart, "Crazy On You"_

…

"_At which point should we let go and do what we want to do, and when should we submit to rules? Coming to terms with our true natures and who we really are has always been a fascination to humans. I know it fascinates me."_

_Hugh Jackman_

…

Days 10-13:

The days pass slowly. They fall into a routine of brief daytime visits and longer nighttime ones. Unfortunately, due to need to stealth and concealment, Maggie isn't able to offer Connor much more hygienic conveniences than a wipe down once a day, deodorant, and tooth brushing. He's obviously not had a shower in a quite a while, much less an opportunity for a shave.

When his scraggly hair starts flopping in his eyes, she helps him wash it in a bucket of warm water she barely manages to get out to the barn without being caught and gives him what he admits is his first haircut in months. He thanks her, and she simply smiles, refraining from telling him he looks years younger and yards better.

She's not able to get much more warm water out to the barn inconspicuously, though, and it doesn't help that the temperature is barely above freezing. Connor's doing so much better than he has been, but Maggie knows after years of filthy, exhausting work on a farm that sometimes you just don't feel human until you can get completely clean and groomed.

So a couple of days later when Annette actually manages to talk everyone else into an all-day, last minute shopping trip to the nearby outlet mall, Maggie seizes the opportunity with both hands.

"I'd love to go, but I should really get started on the reading list one of my professors emailed out early," Maggie says in what she hopes is a convincingly regretful tone. Under Annette's scrutinizing gaze, she adds sheepishly, "And…there might be…a guy…I want to come visit for a bit…"

It's not a complete lie.

Annette's eyes soften a smidge, and she sighs indulgently. "Don't do anything overly stupid, and have supper ready on the table by six-thirty sharp."

Maggie grins in relief. "Yes, ma'am."

She waits until the car's been gone for a solid twenty minutes before ushering Connor quickly inside and up the stairs.

"Really appreciate this, Maggie, ye've no idea."

She waves off his thanks, gesturing around the small bathroom she shares with her siblings, suddenly very aware of being so close to him in such a small, enclosed space. "There's towels, soap, and shavin' stuff in the obvious places. "Toss your dirty clothes out so I can wash 'em. My room's two doors down when you're done. Just yell if ya need anythin'."

He raises an eyebrow as a gentle smirk crosses his face. "Think ye covered th'necessities…what else y'think I might be needin' durin' shower time, lass? Wanna lend a hand?"

She nearly chokes on the "yes" that reflexively tries to slip out, instead clearing her throat and attempting something much more rational but still hospitable.

"Just…if you…I'm…gonna get some…I'm gonna do some dinner prep…so…just…yeah, okay."

"Don't think I recognize th'language yer usin' dere, lass."

As she can't honestly offer anything constructive (or coherent) in return, she settles for turning a bright crimson and shoves him into the bathroom, slamming the door on that ridiculously inviting smirk. She waits long enough for him to toss out his clothes, then pitches the lot into washing machine before escaping to the tranquil sanctuary of the kitchen.

There are several moments of slow, measured breathing exercises before she trusts herself to hold a knife safely. When Maggie is confident she's regained some semblance of manual and mental control, she commences chopping vegetables for a quick stir fry.

She's been peeling and chopping for several minutes when she hears the water cut on overhead. She figures he must've decided to shave first, and honestly she doesn't blame him. Caveman was the polite descriptive word, really. She glances at the clock, calculating roughly how much time she has before she has to relegate Connor back to the barn. Annette will be as good as her word; not one member of her family will enter the house before six-thirty, so plenty of time left.

She's been taking some books out to the barn for him to read, but he's probably tired of sitting in a stall all day, so Maggie figures she'll offer to let him roam the house, maybe watch some TV before making him some dinner and sending him back out.

He really seems to have improved over the last couple of days, she muses. Almost one hundred percent, at least physically, and mentally he's not so bad anymore, either. She's even been able to stop bandaging his fingers and letting the chewed places heal.

But she can tell from the nightmares he still wakes up from once or twice a night and the way he still randomly drifts into unfocused silences that he's not quite ready to take off on his own yet, either.

From his comment in the bathroom, though, he might just be taking some important steps in mental improvement. At any rate, he's definitely allowing himself to think about less serious things than whoever this Murphy is.

As the shower runs overhead, Maggie's thoughts drift back again and again to his question. God above, she wanted so very badly to say yes. Unfortunately, she nearly loses a finger to her chef's knife when she gets a little too engrossed in deciding exactly how she might be lending that hand if she were upstairs right now.

Won't be any lending of dismembered hands, so best take a break before she loses something she can't replace. Figuring she's done enough prep for now anyway, Maggie hastily places the chopped vegetables in the fridge, changes out the laundry, all the while shaking her head at her own foolishness. Might as well banish these ridiculous, hormonal-teenager fantasies of Connor before she has to face him again.

But now she has no idea what she's supposed to do with herself. She eventually gives up trying to fight the fantasies and figures she'll head upstairs to wait in her room like she said she would. She pauses as she passes the bathroom, though, head automatically cocking to the side to listen better.

Was that…what was the noise?

Worry immediately pools in her stomach. Maybe he isn't as recovered as she'd thought. He could be having a flashback or falling out or…Or maybe she should just see if he's okay.

She raises her hand to knock, intending to ask if he needs something or if she can help. Just as her knuckles hit the wood, a second sound drifts from the bathroom, deeper and more guttural than the first. It's growling, drawn out…and very definitely a moan. And it sends shivers through every nerve in her body.

Some of them twice.

Her fingers slide uselessly down the front of the door, all thoughts of knocking forgotten as she leans forward, straining to hear more. There's a faint thud of wet flesh slapping something hard and solid, and in her mind she can picture him: one hand pressed flat against the wall, head bowed under the streaming spray, his other hand placed much lower down on himself; the corded muscles in his shoulders and right arm tensing and releasing methodically as a fervid hiss slips from between his lips.

She draws blood from her lower lip in a sudden, furious effort to not answer his fervent exhalation with one of her own.

Maggie's traitorous fingers are reaching for the door handle against all of her better judgment when the water abruptly shuts off. She stands, frozen in a moment of complete petrification, listening to Connor shuffle around the small room. She finally awakens enough feeling in her mental faculties to realize she probably shouldn't be caught creeping outside the door like a desperate stalker. She's just turning back to her room when he calls her name.

Shit…does he know she's there, that she heard him? It takes her a moment to clear her constricted throat and squeeze some much needed air into her paralyzed lungs.

"Yeah?"

"Dere's no clothes in here…maybe ye could leave 'em outside th'door or somethin'?"

Shit!

"Sorry! Forgot to bring some!" She flees to the relative safety of her room, cursing herself for forgetting something as obvious as clothes.

Because it would be _terrible_ for him to be running naked around her house.

How many times in one day, _in one hour_, is this man going to reduce her to such an inarticulate state of mortification? Her face burns with a mix of embarrassment and arousal as she bends over and digs through the stash of clean sweats she's been keeping in the back of her closet.

As she straightens, Maggie wonders how it's possible for this one particular man to make her feel like such an eager, hormonal, clumsy teenager desperately trying to lose her virginity. She didn't even feel like that when she was a teenager trying to lose her virginity. She shakes her head, sardonically amused with her own absurd, overly intense reactions to what is clearly nothing more than a man taking a shower.

But, oh, to have been a fly on the wall of that shower…or in the shower…and not a fly…maybe between him and the wall, the scalding water streaming over them, her fingers clenched in his new haircut that's just long enough to be graspable, his teeth on her throat, her hand sliding down to—

"Maggie?"

She whirls around, gasping, the sweatpants flying from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Connor stands less than ten feet away, just inside the door of her bedroom. She has no idea how he didn't step on that floorboard in the hallway, the one that screams like a banshee and would've let her know he was coming.

The man moves like a panther.

Her eyes widen as she takes in every glorious, damp inch of him: water droplets dripping from his hair down his smoothly shaven cheeks, continuing south over what seems like miles of bare, surprisingly tanned skin before disappearing into the towel he's slung around his hips.

_Rather low around his hips_, Maggie's traitorous, over-stimulated brain qualifies.

"Didn't quite hear ye through th'door, so I came t'see…"

His sentence trails off, hanging in the air as he takes in her dangling hand, flushed skin, and gaping jaw. His eyebrows lower in concern, and he glances down at himself before hesitantly looking back up.

"I, uh...didn't mean t'come out so bare, as it were. I c'n just—"

"No, you're fine!" It comes out a little too shrill, and Maggie mentally slaps herself. Knowing she needs to get him clothes quickly before she does something (even more) stupid, she snatches the pants from the floor and shoves them at his abdomen, forcing him back a couple of startled steps.

"It's not like I haven't seen ya naked before," she adds hastily, using false bravado in an attempt to cover the fact that she won't meet his confused gaze. She presses the pants harder into his middle, wishing he'd do anything other than just stand there staring at her. Something, take the damn pants and put them on, or even just—

His hands close gently but firmly around her wrists. She swallows hard against the sudden knot in her throat. This is definitely close kin to one of those things on her wish list, but she doesn't dare—

"What's got ye so flustered? Yer tremblin' somethin' fierce. Y'alright? Somethin' happen?"

She's struggling to control her breathing as warmth radiates outward from his touch. What the hell is wrong with her that she can't even look him in the face? She's bathed this man and hauled his half-dead carcass through the woods. Hell, she's been completely naked with him, pressed solidly up against every hard inch of him from cheek to toe and everything – _everything_ – in between. She's even felt—

"Maggie." Soft, hardly more than a murmur, accompanied by his finger under her chin. He tilts her face up until their gazes lock. The tempest she saw the first time he looked in her eyes is still there, will probably never go away, but it's distant now, hidden behind something new that flashes out as he studies her silently.

"What're you thinkin'?" she asks suddenly, astonished by her own courage.

"That I want ye, an' I've no right. That yer th'best thing these worn out eyes've seen in a long time. That there's so much I haven't told ye b'cause I'm afraid ye'll run screamin' or come after me wit' a shotgun an' th'sheriff in tow."

"Ya sure you're not just reactin' to almost dyin' and latchin' on to the first friendly face you see?" She's (mostly) joking.

"Come close t'dyin' before; dat ain't exactly how it works. Why're ye so worked up all of a sudden, Maggie?"

She has to fight the urge to melt just a little every time he says her name like that.

"Somethin' like what you said, only without the runnin' and screamin' bit. Ya make me feel like I've got my first crush on the quarterback or somethin', and I barely know ya. And…well, I've got to seem so…I don't know, sheltered and juvenile to ya."

He releases her wrist and takes her face in both hands. "Ye seem like a woman who dragged a grown man outta th'woods on her own. Ye seem like a woman who's taken care of a broken bastard that owes her everythin' an' can never repay her."

"You don't have to—"

At the sudden flash in his eyes she breaks off, the words stuck in her throat. He waits, not speaking, not hesitating, and very clearly asking for permission. She is absolutely transfixed by the tempest behind his eyes and couldn't look away if she wanted to.

So she nods.

And he kisses her, slowly at first, exploring, fingers sliding back from her face and tangling in her hair, echoing the twist of his tongue against hers. Maggie is suddenly immersed in a world of sensations she never knew was possible from just a kiss and a caress. If she were thinking straight, she might find the complete shut out of the rest of the world a bit odd, like something out of a fantasy, but at the moment her mind is focused on only one thing.

Then one of them moans, she's never sure afterwards who, but it's the catalyst that sets off an explosion. Suddenly her arms are around him, and she's gripping for purchase as if she's plunging off a cliff with no way back. She's sandwiched roughly between Connor and the wall, both of them inextricably plummeting together through an abrupt tornado of tongues and teeth and fingernails.

The storm lasts for less than a minute, and by the time they put a couple of inches between them, his towel has disappeared, along with most of the buttons on her shirt, and she's pretty sure she'll never catch her breath again. From the tenderness across her chest and shoulders, there are probably red finger marks forming already, and she's fairly certain she might've drawn blood down his back.

Connor's eyes are clamped shut, his breath ragged and scalding against her face, and for one detached moment of random clarity Maggie notes that he has apparently taken advantage of the bottle of Scope she left on the bathroom sink.

She reaches for him again, far from sated, but he inexplicably, incomprehensibly resists.

"Ye don't…y'don't know me, Maggie, y'don't know what I've done 'r who I am…Feck, girl, yer not a kid, but I'm prob'ly old enough t'be yer da!"

Her voice is hard and determined as she pulls his face level with hers, giving him a good shake to make him open his eyes. "First, my daddy's probably old enough to be _your_ daddy, so you can end that train of thought right there. Second, I ain't askin' ya to marry me or even commit. You want to go collapse in some other woman's woods next week and sleep in her barn while she nurses ya back to health, you be my guest. And third."

She cuts herself off here, tugging him forward suddenly until Connor stumbles a little, his palms slapping the wall to keep himself from actually crushing her against the wall.

"There will be untold amounts of gratuitous violence if ya stop kissin' me again without a _damn_ good reason."

They don't last long against the wall, and before Maggie knows it, she's pinned Connor to her twin bed and has shed everything but one last damp, flimsy layer that only just separates them. He pulls her down so she's pressed against him from sternum to shin bone, and he rolls until Maggie is again squeezed between the wall and his captivating heat.

As his tongue soothes the tender spot his teeth left on her neck and traces a tickling, damp line along her skin up to her earlobe, he murmurs, "Wanted ye fer a while. Dreamed about ye sometimes, too. Ever since I woke up wit'ye wrapped around me in th'barn."

Her eyes roll back as his hands his tongue's roaming explorations and his voice vibrates through her until her breath is coming in short, shallow pants.

"Started thinkin' about ye in th'shower…got me so feckin' hard, couldn't help m'self…how ye felt runnin' yer hands over me, pressed so damn hot all th'way down me…Christ, Maggie, yer so…"

And then the real words stop for a while, replaced instead by every pronounceable syllable in the English language and some Maggie's sure are foreign.

She forces a pause at one point only long enough to retrieve a condom from the back of her nightstand drawer, but once she's rolled it one him, she finds herself rotated and spun around until she's upright on her knees, hands braced on the wall for support. Connor's lips brush against her ear, his front pressed against every inch of her back, and the tip of his cock throbbing gently against the thin cloth between them.

"How much d'ye like dese panties?" he growls. She can only produce a half-choked squeak and nod frantically. His hands shift on her hips, there's a slight pressure, and suddenly her underwear ceases to be an issue. His fingers dig in hard, painfully, and absolutely.

"Are ye sure, Maggie? I can't…I won't be able t'stop after dis, so if you don't—"

Her paralyzed vocal cords make a miraculous recovery as she practically roars, "Get. Inside. Me. Now. Dammit!"

She has to admit he definitely knows how to take a hint.

The first time is fast and harsh, bordering on brutal. He wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't stop, and he doesn't, no matter how loud she gets. She's never had sex like this before, hard and _so_ rough and exactly how she needs it. She's never had sex with someone who is infinitely capable of fucking her and himself senseless at the same time, all without the stale odor of frat boys and booze surrounding them amidst drunken apologies of, "Sorry, babe, I'll get ya off next time."

There's barely a pause in between; she literally manages three shuddering breaths before he's sliding down the bed, yanking Maggie underneath him, and flipping her over. She chokes out a startled but pleased, "Jesus, Connor!" just as his mouth resumes its earlier assault on hers.

He releases her lips just long enough to groan, "Lord's name, girl," as he sinks hip deep into once more.

The second time is as lingering and unhurried as the first was frantic and forceful, and when Connor's mouth leaves hers, it's only to find somewhere on her body where he hasn't tested her level of sensitivity yet.

"Yer moanin' is heaven, but feck if I don't love th' sound o'ye screamin' m'name," Connor grins against her inner thigh. Then he resumes the activity upon which he was so intent before he interrupted himself, and Maggie has no compunctions about giving him exactly what he wants to hear.

A couple of hours and a frantic time-check later, they've managed to find a relatively comfortable position where they both mostly fit on the tiny bed.

"I don't have to start cookin' for a while yet," Maggie sighs, sprawled across Connor's chest. "I set an alarm just in case we fall asleep or somethin'."

"Ye really plannin' on goin' t'sleep?" The question is accompanied by a pinch from his hand resting on the curve of her ass, and she stifles a yelp even though she knows there's no one around to hear it.

"Not if ya keep that up," she laughs, slapping his hand away. "Did your mama teach you that was the proper way to treat girls?"

"Not as such," he murmurs against her neck, reaching down until he's grasping both of her ass cheeks with his hands and dragging her fully on top of him. Grinning, she starts to ask if he's really ready to go again, but her jaw snaps shut as pulls her hips down hard against the very hard evidence that yes, he is exceptionally ready to go again.

The insistent screech of the alarm clock finds them both extremely reluctant to wake, and Maggie doesn't protest overly much when Connor chucks the unfortunate electronic device at the wall. She knows her family is due home in the next hour or so, however, so she manages to convince both herself and Connor that they do actually need to put some clothes on and get him back out to the barn.

"I meant to let ya watch some TV or have some civilized house time, but I don't think there was much that we did that could be called 'civilized'," she grins, feeling a little goofy and a little shy as she pulls her socks back on. She sneaks occasional peeks at him while he dresses, still enthralled by the way his back muscles twist and flex under his skin as he leans forward to pull on the earlier abandoned sweatpants.

"So, ye'd rather we watched one o'dem soap operas or somethin'? Th'Young an th'Hopeless? Some shit like dat?" But he's echoing her smile as he slips a t-shirt over his head followed by a sweatshirt.

Connor follows her back down the stairs, and when he automatically offers to help her finish preparing dinner, she doesn't refuse. Sharing kitchen space with him while the two of them work in companionable silence is oddly domestic, though she couldn't imagine a man less likely to be in this particular situation on a regular basis.

He flicks his eyes sideways at her when she snickers at the sudden mental image of him frosting cupcakes in nothing but a frilly pink apron. Of course, the image quickly morphs into one of her selfin the same outfit, performing the same task, only this time he's even less clothed and his arms are reaching through hers to assist with the frosting.

She can only imagine the expression on her face now.

"Penny fer yer thoughts, lass?"

Despite the last three or four naked hours she's spent with him, all it takes are those softly spoken words and _that look_ that he's shooting her to send flames creeping up her neck and down between her thighs.

"Maybe…maybe later t'night. Let's just…let's just finish dinner for now."

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and mischief is far too weak a description for the expression on _his _face. "Alright," he replies, seemingly letting the subject drop. He reaches into the refrigerator to retrieve the vegetables she prepared earlier and crosses the kitchen, offering Maggie the container. Their fingers brush, and she involuntarily looks up, meeting his eyes. His smirk is firmly in place, and Maggie has a nagging suspicion that Connor has a fairly good idea of exactly how central he is to her thoughts at the moment.

"Y'know, lass, ye'd look mighty fine fixin' dinner in something a bit lacier an'more revealin'…could help ye inta somethin' a lot less suitable than what yer wearin', if ye like."

Connor at least has the manners to pick up and wash the vegetables Maggie dropped before she kicks him out of the house and back to the barn.

_Author's Note: Again, thanks for the patience. I'm in the midst of moving most of the way across the country, so it will be a while before I get to the next chapter. Thought I'd let you have a happy ending this time. Thank you for reading, and please take a moment to leave a thought or two in the little box on your way out._


	5. Chapter 5

"_Life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone._

_I hear you call my name, and it feels like home_

_When you call my name it's like a little prayer._

_I'm down on my knees. I want to take you there._

_In the midnight hour I can feel your power._

_Just like a prayer, you know I'll take you there._

_I hear your voice. It's like an angel sighing._

_I have no choice, I hear your voice._

_Feels like flying._

_I close my eyes. Oh God, I think I'm falling_

_Out of the sky. I close my eyes._

_Heaven help me."_

_Madonna, "Like a Prayer"_

…

"_If it were not for hopes, the heart would break."_

_Thomas Fuller_

…

"_Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy."_

_William Butler Yeats _

…

Days 16-21:

The times she goes out to sit and talk with Connor or stay with him while he sleeps have transformed into something so vastly different that Maggie is staggered when she realizes how little time has actually passed. She almost can't remember a time when she wasn't hiding a convict in her father's barn, lying about hiding said convict, and having stealthy and spectacular sex with him late into the night.

And early into the morning.

Annette has a far too knowing expression on her face each day when Maggie drags herself out of bed barely before noon. After one pointed question about whether Maggie is coming down with something, though, Annette leaves the issue alone, much to Maggie's great relief.

Connor, of course, is also not making things any easier. A pinch here, a growled suggestion there, and within a minute Maggie finds herself unclothed and utterly undone. She's not surprised in the least that the man's proven to be rather insatiable.

She's also not surprised when he doesn't quite have the stamina he feels he should.

"You nearly starved to death less than three weeks ago. You are allowed to have some recovery time. We don't need to go three times in a row every night," she reminds him. Her words are lost in a muted moan she only just stifles as his fingers slip below the waistband of her panties.

"Then ye should stop temptin' me, girl…can't keep m'mind on nothin' else when yer around."

That's nothing…Maggie can't even keep her mind when he's around.

…

She hasn't given up on getting him to talk about himself, although she's always careful not to push too hard. He's more relaxed now, and though she can understand why, she's pretty sure the easing of _some_ of his tension doesn't completely extend to his past. So she starts slow.

"How'd ya get this one?" she asks quietly. They're lying tangled together on his makeshift bed, blankets tossed haphazardly over random body parts to ward off the December chill. She's spent the better part of an hour asking him about the stories behind various tattoos and scars, reveling in the cadence of his voice and the heat of his skin. He's pressed against the length of her back with one arm resting under her neck. She's holding his other arm in one hand, running her eyes and fingertips over the raised marks that circle his wrist.

He's quiet for so long that she just knows that horrible, empty depth has stolen over his face again, turning his eyes hollow and dark. She tenses, waiting in silent anxiety until finally he releases and long, slow breath against the top of her head and presses just a little closer.

"What would ye say if I told ye I was handcuffed t'me own toilet once, an'I couldn't get at th'key, so I ripped th'damn thing right outta t'floor?"

She glances up at Connor's face, gauging his expression. He seems sincere enough, and his face is free of that grave sadness that still takes him away sometimes, but there are distinct crinkle lines around his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitches just a little.

"I'd say you were either full of shit or a few beers short of a six pack," she says, and he bursts out laughing at her dubious expression. As glad as she is that he's feeling good enough to laugh, though, she's worried he might wake someone in the house. She slaps the flat of her hand back against his belly with a resounding thwack, startling an "oof" from him that only briefly interrupts his laughter.

"Keep quiet, ya idiot! Ya want us to get caught out here?"

Connor makes an admirable effort to control himself, smothering his laugh until he's run down to chuckles. She returns her attention to her examination of his wrists (_**could**__ handcuffs have done that? The toilet part is most definitely bullshit, but those scars_…), meticulously ignoring him. She's so absorbed in her inspection that it takes her a moment to notice he's stopped laughing.

She shivers suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck standing up as she feels the force of his gaze, and she swallows audibly.

"What?" she asks, deliciously uncomfortable under the steady pressure of his eyes.

"Y'really want t'keep me quiet, 'm sure y'can think of more interestin' ways t'shut me up den beatin' on me."

"Still don't believe ya," she insists. He twists his arm in her grasp, pressing his fingers down her hand until they're entwined with her own. He examines their woven fingers seriously for a long, silent moment before leisurely raising her arm and draping it backwards around his neck. His hand alights on her hip, nails scraping harshly as his fingers press into her flesh.

"I'll go t'me grave swearin' it's God's honest truth," he breathes against her ear. "But let's talk about somethin' else fer now, yeah?"

Her eyes flutter shut, and any reply she would've made is strangled in her suddenly constricted throat. His teeth slide down the rim of her ear, sharp and smooth and just painful enough, and she presses back brazenly against him, her fist twisting into the hair at the back of his neck.

His voice is hoarse and a little fractured as he murmurs, "Might wanna hang on a little tighter, Maggie."

…

She's attached. She won't lie to herself, not like she did when she was younger. She knows she shouldn't want him or feel like she needs him so much, but that's no different than when she was a stupid teenager in the throes of her first real rebelliousness. Nor is it much different that she doesn't care that she shouldn't want him so badly. Par for the course with every teenager.

What makes this time different is that now (_when I'm all grown up_, she thinks ruefully to herself) she knows that he can't stay. She dreams of forever, but only when she's asleep. He's a convict (_a dangerous one_, her traitorous brain mutters), and someone somewhere is looking for him. She's mature enough to admit to herself that sometime in the very near future he's going to have to leave. She doesn't know when that should be or where he should go, but when it happens she'll probably never see him again.

Every time she remembers this, she shatters just a little more, has to hold him that much tighter to keep from fragmenting. She thinks he knows, because he doesn't ever say anything when she does this; he just holds her right back.

…

"It's Christmas in a few days, didn't know if ya knew," she says, handing him a Tupperware container. She seats herself next to him on a saddle pad, setting down the thermos of coffee between them.

"Ya been good dis year?" he asks, pulling the lid off and grinning at her. "Santa gonna visit ye an' all dat?"

She offers a half-smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, studying his face quietly. He smiles more now than he did even a week ago, but she thinks she doesn't know him well enough to tell if he means it or not. Mostly, she thinks he does, but there's still an edge that doesn't sit right on his face. This man was made for smiling, not for sorrow, and the heavy load he's carrying shows in everything he does.

"Was thinkin' ya might like ta come to church on Christmas Eve. We could wait for my family to go, then I could drive ya, drop ya off a little ways away, and you could slip in the back or something." She's been thinking this over for a couple of days, trying to think how best to present the offer. She realized this morning that straightforward is probably the best policy with Connor, so she simply lays her idea out and waits for his response.

"Ye…Ye'd do that? Fer me? Ye could get caught, get in trouble, an' I don't want t'make ye—"

"Ya ain't makin' me do anything I don't want to, Connor. It's an offer. I figured you'd get some good out of it, and I know ya like hymns. Our church isn't much for preachin' on Christmas Eve, it's really more of a concert with food and such after. You probably shouldn't come to that part, people 'round here would notice a stranger an' all, but I can give ya the spare key to my car, and you can wait out there for a while, if you want. Hide in the back seat or something, and I'll bring ya a plate."

He regards Maggie mutely for a long time, his face a mixture of so many emotions it makes her a little dizzy. She busies herself by pulling out an extra mug for the coffee and pouring each of them a steaming, bitter cup.

"You should eat while it's still hot," she murmurs, holding out the thermos cap to him. Her cheeks heat as his fingers connect with hers, and she can't hold his eyes. She doesn't know why she feels so self-conscious all of a sudden, but she's starting to wish she hadn't made her suggestion. In retrospect, she feels like a sixth grader asking a high school senior to church for a date.

"I'd love t'go, an' I can't tell ye what it means fer ye t'ask me. Thanks, Maggie."

And just like that, the awkwardness is gone. Connor digs into his food, deciding this moment would be the perfect time to mention something ridiculous and intimate and far too accurate about a particular thing she did with her mouth the day before that he wouldn't mind a repeat performance of. She scolds him to finish the food that her stepmother spent all afternoon slaving over, though she does take a moment to move their coffee cups to the side.

Just in case.

…

"What was dat look ye gave me jus' a moment ago?"

Her back is to him, so she's easily able to conceal the expression on her face as she shrugs her t-shirt over her head. She knows exactly what he means, but that doesn't mean she has to tell him.

"When?"

There's a shuffling as he pulls himself up from the pallet and stands behind her. His hand on her waist stills her stiff movements, and she pauses, half dressed and wishing very much that she had better self-control. For more than one reason, at the moment.

"When I said yer name at th'end there, jus' before ye came. Ye looked at me, an' there was…"

Still she doesn't turn. There's no point, nothing good could possibly come of this. She needs to leave before she says something she can't take back.

"I should really head back, thought I heard somebody movin' around a minute ago in the house. Almost got caught sneakin' back in the other night, ended up tellin' Annette I went out for a midnight cigarette, and—"

"Maggie."

The single word drives an abrupt, undeniable jolt straight into her chest. Her head drops fractionally, her eyes closing, and every particle of air leaves her lungs with a sudden rush. There's a sharp, sudden ache where she thinks her heart should be, and she's reminded of just how splintered she thinks she is.

And this charming, infuriating, broken man just keeps making it that much worse and that much harder to do what she knows she has to.

"Y'alright? Did I say somethin' or hurt ye?"

"No," she whispers. "Ya did everything right, that's the problem."

"Can ye look at me? 'Cause I'm lost here, girl, an' yer gonna hafta help me out a little. What's got ye so upset?"

"You!" she bursts out, turning on him with abrupt intensity. He doesn't step back, though his eyes widen in shock, and he holds his hands up as if surrendering.

"But...ye said that I—"

"You didn't!" Maggie cries. "At least, you didn't mean to! It's who you are, everything you say, everything you do, and, Jesus, Connor, why do you have to be so absolutely wrong in every way and still be so goddamn perfect?!"

"Maggie, I don't—"

"And I know it sounds stupid," she continues, talking over him, not even hearing his words as she turns away again, "but that look on my face was…The way ya say my name, it's like that's how it's meant to be said, and I don't want to hear it any other way from anyone else. And you're rippin' things outta me I didn't know were there in the first damn place."

And just like that, the anger burns out, and she grabs her coat before she can lose her resolve as well. He doesn't speak as she shrugs it on, and she takes that as a sign that she should go while she still has the willpower. She moves to leave, not even bothering to zip her jacket, when Connor touches her hand, freezing her in midstep.

She turns back to him, ready to let loose another tirade when she glances at his face. That's her first mistake.

"I didn't mean—"

"Ye did, and yer right, an' if ye felt that way, ye should've said sooner."

She smiles suddenly, a sense of severe unreality washing over her, and shakes her head. "Sooner? Connor, three weeks. I found ya three weeks ago, to the day. I feel like an idiot for having these thoughts and feelings about you _now_. How do ya think I would've felt a week ago? Two weeks? Did ya want me to pull ya from the woods with promises of fairy tales and forever?"

It's only then she realizes he still hasn't dressed. "You're gonna catch your death standing around with nothin' on, Connor; either get under the covers or put some clothes on. I hafta go."

She doesn't mention how distracting he is when he's completely naked, of course. Or half clothed. Or completely clothed.

Without breaking eye contact, he simply reaches down and grabs a blanket, tossing it absently around his shoulders.

"So y'are pissed at me, then? Maggie, I don't have t'stay around any longer, I know it's not been easy on ye, an' ye've done more fer me than…than I could ever repay, though I can try if ye want. If y'could jus' gimme til after Christmas, den I can be on m'way wit'out any problems."

Blind, stupid, perfect idiot.

She knows she should just leave, let him think the worst, maybe even convince him to go now instead of three days from now, but she can't stand that suggestion of something she hears in his voice, and his shoulders are sagging, and the laughter that's been slowly building alongside the sorrow on his face is trickling away, and…dammit.

So she decides to stay. That's her second mistake in as many minutes.

She takes his face in both her hands, closing the distance between them, and he enfolds them in his blanket.

"I don't want ya t'go after Christmas," she murmurs against his lips as his arms wrap around her waist. "I don't want ya t'go at all, that's the problem. I don't want to let ya go, and I know I have to, and I know I probably won't ever see you again. And the whole time I'm askin' myself why, why the hell do I have to care so much, and it's all. Your. Damn. Fault."

She still can't look at him, even as she punctuates her last words with kisses, and their foreheads press together, their breathing syncs, and the sounds of the night filter in around them. For once he doesn't say anything, and damn him, that's perfect, too.

_Author's Note: For some reason, The Black Crowes' song "She Talks to Angels" and The Birthday Massacre's album __Hide and Seek__ were on repeat as I wrote and rewrote this chapter. I've got the rest of the story mapped out, and I'm going to see how much of it I can get written in the next couple of weeks to get it done. What I need from you guys is this: I have then epilogue written in my head two different ways. I know that I should end it how I feel best. At the same time, I'm writing this for you guys. What would you like to see? Bitter or sweet? If you liked what you read, please take a moment to leave a comment or review. Thanks for reading._


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